1
FEBRUARY 1866
The man’s spirit lingered, anguished and alone. Clio Blair could sense his jagged energy, sharp as the metal tang of blood tinging the air.
Viscount Beachley’s maids had done their best to clean the entryway. The Aubusson rug where his body had been discovered no longer graced the grand entrance to his resplendent Mayfair mansion. Dark mahogany wall panels had been polished with lemon oil and beeswax. The parquet was scrubbed and swept. Carpets on the stairs winding up to the first floor were brushed to burgundy finery.
But death still settled in the cracks like dust and clung to the shadowy corners as sticky as cobwebs.
She turned a slow circle and waited for her magic to fill in some of the blank spaces in Superintendent Lachlan MacDougal’s story. One thing was certain: Uncle Lachlan would be relieved the victim’s ghost remained. It was impossible to determine whether a soul would move on or stay. In this case, Viscount Beachley was most assuredly still in his house, in spirit, if not in body. Which meant Clio could help her uncle with the case.
Lucky me.
Sir Robin Goodfellow, Clio’s feathered familiar, clacked his beak and adjusted his perch on her shoulder. Sleek raven feathers brushed against her cheek as she noted a scuff mark on the wainscoting that lemon oil couldn’t remove.
Uncle Lachlan had sent a missive requesting her presence at his office far too early that morning to discuss the case with her in hopes she might accomplish three tasks.
One: determine if Viscount Beachley’s spirit had remained earth-bound.
I can tick that off the list.
Two: win the trust of the spectre.
Decidedly more difficult.
It could take days, weeks, or even months to win over a ghost. Until a spirit trusted her, they would remain hidden. Once she could prove she intended to help, often the ghosts would show themselves, but that didn’t come without risk. A corporeal spirit, while not able to harm most of the living, could harm Clio if it wished. She hadn’t quite worked out the why of it. She could see them when no one else could, so perhaps that connection allowed them to interact physically with her.
It was why Aunt Rowan hadn’t allowed Clio to help Uncle Lachlan until her twenty-first birthday – seven times three – when her magic was fully fledged. Even then, her protective aunt was reluctant. Four years and eight cases later, Clio had managed to help all but one soul make peace with their passing. A particularly vexed marchioness had wanted the impossible: vengeance. That was something Clio could not provide.
Anger was a common emotion among wronged spirits, but when Clio refused to help the dead woman, her rage eclipsed anything Clio had encountered.
She had needed her entire coven – her sister, her cousin, andher aunt – to help cast the binding spell, imprisoning the spirit within a talisman where it could do no harm. Clio could not force a ghost to transition, but she could contain the soul in an object until it was ready to move on. It was akin to holding them in a prison cell with only one key to freedom. Passing from this plane to the next, wherever that might be.
Binding spells were dangerous magic. Taking away any creature’s choice was not the craft she and her coven practised unless they must, and as with all power, it required sacrifice. It had taken Clio weeks to feel strong enough to leave her bed after the ordeal, and her right arm and torso bore scars from the battle she waged with the woman. Aunt Rowan strictly forbade her to work with any more ghosts, but her gift was connected to fire, the element that transformed physical objects into heat and smoke. Her witchfire was designed to aid in transition, and she could not turn away from helping those who were trapped in a world where they no longer belonged. It wasn’t impossible for a witch to reject her magic, but it was incredibly difficult.
And incredibly stupid.
Something Clio was decidedly not. So, she hadn’t told Aunt Rowan where she was going that morning when she left the house and drove herself in her smart little cabriolet to 4 Whitehall Place to speak with Uncle Lachlan. Why borrow trouble before she even knew if the ghost lingered?
But now I know he remains, and he needs my help. I cannot refuse to take this case.
Which brought her back to Uncle Lachlan’s last task.
Three: find the murderer.
Easy as you like. I’m sure to have this buttoned up by teatime.
After listening to Uncle Lachlan summarise what Scotland Yard knew about the death of Viscount Beachley, it was clear factswouldn’t be enough to solve his murder. This crime needed more than just investigative skills; it needed a little bit of magic.
Luckily, Clio had both. She would use all of her abilities to help win the ghost’s trust and use his eyewitness account to find the culprit who murdered him. Once Viscount Beachley knew his killer would face justice for the heinous deeds committed, she hoped he would transition peacefully. If he had any other unfinished business, she would do her best to help.
Aunt Rowan wouldn’t be happy.
But when is she ever pleased about one of us working with Uncle Lachlan?
Clio, her sister, and her cousin all lived with Aunt Rowan in a townhouse not far from Viscount Beachley’s Mayfair mansion in Grosvenor Square. As the last living matriarch of their family, Aunt Rowan had very particular feelings about her nieces and their activities regarding Superintendent Lachlan MacDougal. He wasn’t Clio’s real uncle; she didn’t have one of those any more. But her family had known him from their childhood in Scotland, and he was the only male Aunt Rowan trusted in London. Even if she hated him in equal measure.
Whatever caused the ire between Aunt Rowan and Uncle Lachlan sparked many a late-night discussion between Clio, her sister Eleanor, and Cousin Helena. But not even their combined magic was strong enough to combat Aunt Rowan’s shielding spell on her thoughts regarding Uncle Lachlan.
